


What Never Happened

by NevermoreQ



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 16:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20410549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevermoreQ/pseuds/NevermoreQ
Summary: An original story set in an alternative version of our modern world. A series of global catastrophes  has left the world in recovery. The tale is told by Monica, a fifteen year old girl with a bloody history and heritage. It centers around Monica, her father, and a woman named Raven. An action story filled with violence, mystery, and twisted events.





	1. Never Before

I watched her walk across the room from the bed. She brushed the curtain of beads hanging in the doorway aside. The beads clicked against each other softly, as she entered the bedroom. I was in the bed, curled up near the headboard, hugging my knees to my chest. I was in pajamas with my hair loose around my shoulders. I was only ten years old, but I can remember every detail like it was yesterday. I can remember the heat and the dust. I can remember exactly what she looked like.

Her suit, the kind of suits she always wore, was layered with a coat of dust. Her hair which had been pulled back in a tight bun was loose around her face. Her boots slid across the floor, each foot dragged as if they were too heavy to lift. Her hands were shaking when she reached the tall cabinet by the foot of the bed. Her knuckles were bruised and bloody, as she fumbled with the catch. It was so quiet, I didn’t say a word. Her labored breathing seemed to fill the room, each breath racked with pain and exhaustion.

I wanted to cry, but Orphans don’t cry. I refused to cry, so I just watched. She glanced at me, her dark hair swinging from the sharp turn of her head. She must have assumed I was sleeping, because she looked surprised to see me staring back at her. Her face was dirty with sweat and grime, her eyes looked red-rimmed. What was she to me? I guess she was mother? I don’t know what Raven was to me. I’m still not sure what she had been to my father before he died. She wasn’t my real mother, she wasn’t even my adopted mother. She took care of me, she provided for me and protected me. And sometimes I think she loved me like her own daughter, although I never could be sure if she just loved me because I was _ his _ daughter.

She was the arms that would hold me when I had the nightmares. She was the voice that cautioned me, the ears that listened, and the hands that nursed me when I was sick. Four or five years had passed, and she was the only family I had. I think I loved her, if I ever loved anybody. She had left that morning before I woke up, and I expected her to return soon, but not like this.

Her trembling hands pulled out a bottle from the cabinet. I knew it was there, because I saw her sneak drinks from it in the middle of the night when she thought I was asleep. I didn’t say anything, not just because I didn’t want to get in trouble, but because I didn’t want to see her look ashamed that I knew. She didn’t try to hide it from me now though. She hastily unscrewed the cap, and tilted the bottle upside down, taking a long drink. She inhaled sharply, and tucked her chin down against her chest. I had never tasted vodka, but I assumed it burned a great deal, because she slammed her palm on the cabinet desk, and leaned against it coughing.

Raven caught her breath, and wiped her mouth with her still shaking hand. Her eyes looked up furtively at me, and then behind her at the still swaying beads. I didn’t really need an explanation. Someone was just trying to kill us again. Either her or me, it didn’t make much of a difference. It was all the same whether they wanted to kill me or her. I also figured that said person was most likely dead, or Raven would not have come back. I finally spoke up, my voice sounded so small. 

“Are we leaving then?”  
You might be surprised that I, a ten-year old girl, calmly address my battered and bloodied guardian with such a casual query. The truth was, this was not the first time she had returned in such a condition. It was actually one of many. Her shoulders heaved under the dark blue blazer she wore. She shook her head, “...Not for a bit.” I nodded, and hugged my knees tighter to my chest. I wasn’t afraid or worried. I wasn’t even startled. This was our life, this was my life. Then she turned around.

Raven turned toward me, and her unbuttoned blazer opened slightly. The glimpse I got put a lump in my throat, and a cold chill on my skin. The glimpse I got was of bright crimson red against her white dress shirt. I tried not to stiffen or freeze up, sitting on the bed. I reminded myself that might not be her blood. Then I realized the reason she was leaning on the cabinet wasn’t because vodka was a strong drink. I sat up straight, and stared at her. 

She looked up at me again, and I could see it in her eyes. Her hand slid inside her blazer, and she closed her eyes for a moment. I saw her jaw clench, the veins stand out in her face. That expression of pain triggered a wrenching, twisted feeling in my gut. I still didn’t cry. Orphans don’t cry. I was mad.

I jumped from the bed, my bare feet hit the dirty rug-covered floor in an instant. I wished for a gun in my hand, I wished for the person who had hurt her in front of me. I was a good shot, even at ten years old. I rushed over to her, and grabbed her wrist. I tried to put her arm around my shoulder to help her to the bed. I was very short for my age then, and she nearly fell to the floor. I braced myself, and tried to keep my back straight, but I couldn’t keep her up. 

She fell to her knees, and put out her free hand to catch herself. I knelt down beside her, as she eased herself to sit on the dusty persian rugs. I lifted the flap of her jacket, and my insides wrenched inside me again. Her whole shirt front was soaked in deep red blood. It wasn’t that I was squeamish or afraid of the sight of blood. This was the day I realized what Raven was to me. She was everything to me. She was all I had. Without her, I would be completely and utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of a fun story I've enjoyed writing lately. All original characters and story. Thanks to W who co-created this world and these characters.   
~ NevermoreQ


	2. Never Too Young

I didn’t hesitate very long before I started to unfasten the buttons on her shirt. I didn’t know what I was doing, it was almost instinct. I needed to see the wound. Was it a bullet? A blade? I needed to stop the bleeding. Soon my hands were bloody too, but I just pushed on. I think my mind just stopped thinking about what I was doing, and my hands took over. Raven shook me out of it when she said my name. 

“Monica, stop.”

She had clasped both my hands with her left hand, while her right still held the vodka bottle. I looked up and my eyes must have betrayed my fear. Raven reacted differently than I thought she would. I expected her to laugh at my worry and fretting. I thought she would just brush me off and assure me that she was going to be okay. I thought she would just push through it like she always did. That is the kind of person she was, the kind of person she is. She’s strong, she’s tough. She’s cold and calloused. Raven is a survivor.

What she did really threw a scare into me. She let go of the bottle and leaned forward to press her forehead against mine. You probably think that was no big deal, but Raven didn’t really show much affection or attention. That was probably bad for me, but you have to realize what my life had been like before I met Raven. Growing up with very little affection or warmth has very likely contributed to the cold and harsh persona I have become today. But if you knew the kind of people who raised me before Raven took me with her, you would know how much better off I was with her. And if you knew what my father grew up to be and what he became, you would agree that I haven’t turned out that bad at all.

But there she was, holding my two bloody, little hands in her bloody hand, forehead to forehead, both of us about to cry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to react. I just knelt there in front of her, trying not to cry. Her forehead was sticky, and hot as if she had a fever. I could smell cordite and vodka on her, along with that tangy metallic scent of blood. Her grip on my hands finally loosened, and I pushed her back as gently as I could. She looked so pale it frightened me. That was when _ he _ came in.

“That was quite touching. Really.”

The voice was hoarse and thick with an Arabic accent. I spun around and looked up to see the man standing in the doorway, his hand parting the curtain of beads. He was tall, I don’t know how tall. As I said, I was only ten years old, he seemed to fill the entire doorway in my mind. Raven’s head fell back against the bedpost behind her, and her eyes rose to look up at him sickly. 

The man was wearing a black suit with a black Arabian headdress, and in his hand he held a knife. It was a curved, Turkish blade dripping with blood, most likely Raven’s. I scrambled to my feet standing as tall as I could, which was barely four feet tall at the time. There were several dark stains on his suit, and a bit of blood trickled down his beard. He was leaning heavily in the doorway, and I could see he was badly wounded. 

“It is finished, Raven.”, he told the woman on the floor, before turning his curious black eyes on me. “You must be the child.”

I just stared at him, and inched closer to Raven, not seeking protection from her, but to place myself between him and her. At that time, I was a very small, little girl with very large green eyes and dirty blonde hair. So no doubt, he was not at all intimidated.

“I have never killed a child.”, continued the man in his thick accent. “...but seeing as you are the spawn of the devil. I believe Allah will forgive me.”

Raven tried to get up off the floor behind me. She pushed on the floor with one hand while reaching up to grab the bedpost with her other to pull herself up. Her strength was fading as the blood left her body, and she couldn’t manage to get to her feet. She slid back to the floor, gritting her teeth. Her pale blue eyes looked up at the man towering over us, and she said something in Arabic that I couldn’t understand. At that time, I knew very few words in Arabic, and whatever Raven said to him, she probably wasn’t willing to teach me anyway.

The man’s eyes hardened at her words, and his upper lip curled ever so slightly. He said something back in a nasty tone. I do not know how old he was, but he seemed young. I remember he was handsome, with the darkest eyes I had ever seen. I remember his eyes very vividly. He took a staggering step into the bedroom, pushing through the curtain of beads. His intentions were crystal clear. He was going to kill us both. Before Raven could react, I did.

I stepped over Raven’s legs, and sprinted to the head of the bed. The wounded man advanced, gripping the curved blade underhanded. Raven shifted on the floor, trying to push herself up with her legs. He was focused on her, and must not have considered me a threat. His mistake, his very big mistake. I shoved my hand under the pillow, and my fingers found the .45 Raven kept there.

I pulled it out, while simultaneously switching off the safety. He was standing over Raven, ready to slit her throat, as I took the automatic pistol with both hands and leveled it at him. He looked up at me just as I pulled the trigger. I didn’t even have to aim much at this close range. Just point and shoot. The first round slammed into his chest, and he staggered back. 

My wish had been granted. There was a gun in my hand, and the person who had hurt Raven was in front of me. I fired a second time, and a third. The bullets slammed into his chest and torso, and he stumbled backwards towards the doorway. He dropped the knife, which fell to the rug-covered floor. His hands flailed about, and he got tangled up in the strands of beads. I took aim, and shot him in the face. He fell to the floor tearing down the beaded curtain on his way down. Blood and tiny beads went flying in all directions. It was not my first kill, but it was the first one I remember _enjoying_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of my new story. I'm not sure how often I will post. Probably as often as the mood strikes me. This story is completely my own, but the characters, the history, and world setting were developed mostly by my friend, W. Special thanks for his genius story and character writing skills.  
~ NevermoreQ


End file.
